Chirp, chirp. I am up and out of my sleeping quarters just two minutes after rise, today indeed trumpeted by the early risers perched outside my window. A poem! A poem would do, I think, as I forego breakfast and solicitation by Hector, heading straight through the hallway arm to the center, to the Enclave.
My blessed comrades have secured a descendant, and not just any descendant, but one of the Furies. I approach the Doors.
“I rise before a greater light
riveting thought, denying hope
In our noble justice do we reave
Memory, bonds, names––”
The Doors open outward. I head inward and behold the Enclave, which today is attended by none other than the First Agent. I dip my head before him.
First Agent Xeric returns the nod. A fair personage, the only Agent with hair the color of snow rarely seen, rarely spoken and swift to return from duty with descendants to purify. “You are here for the purification,” he says. A voice without humor, little emotion, and certainly more seriousness than the Fourth Agent. “Please. I’d go myself––it’s an enjoyable process, but as the one responsible for their secure is there, I must remain here.” Not a tenor of enthusiasm––but I understand. Xeric nods once more and steps onto the self-scanner. Not a moment later and the portal connecting the Enclave to Eden materializes on the far left diagonal. I go to it.
“May it go smoothly,” Xeric bids, and I affirm. I am now in the portal, it knows the destination, and my surroundings are transformed once more into those of the Garden.
It is a greenhouse. Another rare sight in our world that has been ‘purified’ of most patches of forest, strengthened into its current technological formation. Trees, ferns, flowers, and other wildlife form a circle around the Chambers. Their scent fills the room, and provides good transition from the portal which dematerializes as I leave it. Mik’vael is sitting on one of the five benches within the circle’s perimeter, and beckons to me when she sees my presence. I gladly fix my eyes on her, saving them for the one true sight of the Chambers that grants them their name––which peripherally brightens my vision, but can wait for their full examination.
“Fair morning, R’aegoth,” Mik’vael says. She is dining on a curiously wrought loaf of bread. “Have you had breakfast?” She is wearing with splendor the uniform of our Bureau. Customized for her title as Athena, it bears a sash resembling the eagle’s wing across her left shoulder and the symbol of our Agency drawn as another wing below the waist.
“Not yet, Mik’vael,” I reply. I too am dressed in a uniform made for my appellation, which is fittingly Eidolon. It needs no ornamentation other than an ornate R, not part of the title but very much part of my name, spread across from right shoulder down to left ankle. “What are you partaking of?”
Part of the loaf is already gone. “It’s called ‘Lumpy Bread,’ I purchased it in a Lowers bakery as a token of celebration.” She inclines her head to the two objects that now, at last, I look to.
At the very center of the Chambers lie two portals. Or, they are at least fashioned on the surface to resemble the portals we use for everyday transportation. These chambers within the Chambers are identical to each other and to nothing else––they are the only two of their kind in the Sector––and they are the vessels for our line of work.
Today one of them contains a descendant, a young man of perhaps his low twenties, about a decade my junior. He is dressed in the clothes he came in, no uniform to match the cause he claims to fight for, merely a shirt decorated with flowers that pale to the chrysanthemums of the Chambers and uncut pants of some kind of blue. It is not lavender, by any means. The only thing we share is our hair color.
The other chamber is empty, for now. I turn back to Mik’vael. “Tell me, was the capture enlightening?”
She finishes up the loaf. The fabric on her sash has received some crumbs. “Well, he wasn’t Valha’ya Glorae, or their leader whom I was able to exchange some words with at the bakery. From the few minutes I had, I believe I know which was Valha’ya. Both are capable.”
I nod. That is enough––I sympathize with Mik’vael, who is one rank higher, and no longer regret the Director’s decision to hold me back at Headquarters. Our battles with those few descendants of notable power––provided the inherent strength of most descendant abilities––in particular with those of the Furies, are few and far between. It is well known to us, but not to them, that there are only ten ‘true' Agents within the Ranking Order. They have had the fortune of facing other Agents in the past, who while subordinate to the greater structure that even I obey, are mere decoys in our generational strategy to keep the ants at bay. It is true that the ten Agents of the Order are made known to the general public––however, so are the others. Some schools, I believe, highlight certain ten, but which ten rotate in the discourse. A strategy worthy of my thought, indeed.
“He was not stronger than you, though, if that was what you were asking.” Mik’vael smiles. “He’d give Hector a fair fight, although our ‘fight’ didn’t last long enough to really see his hand-to-hand combat.” She gestures to the chamber containing the Fury, who is putting his hands to its walls and seemingly attempting to burn his way out. The chamber walls glow, but they hold. They are built of a material stronger than alter hypercarbon, and the make is guarded even from the First Agents.
“I see. Perhaps Hector should have joined you after all,” I say, and Mik’vael laughs. “He’s not with you today?” she asks.
“A rhetorical question. We both know that only those responsible for the capture, besides the first three Agents, can witness the purification of the said descendant.”
“Of course! Shall we begin?” she says as she stands. I stand in suit. Together we say the Words.
“We now ask that this Gene in front of us be Purified.”
As we watch for some moments of pure silence, the chamber not containing the descendant radiates heat, which I feel. I barely notice the descendant’s futile efforts dwindling as the other chamber sprouts a small fire on its bottom. As I watch, the fire grows, and seemingly by its own will, grasps at the air above with wisps of orange and climbs upward on two lines. The twin tongues of flame connect at the top to form the outline of a human being shaped by fire.
The descendant is staring at it in horror, and as I watch he puts his hands to the walls of his chamber to no avail. His mouth opens and he is screaming––and the fire-shape points one of its arms at me.
A real pain strikes my mind.
I keep watching––it is not the first time this has happened. Though this descendant must not be weak, for the pain is at its strongest yet. But I keep watching, as the descendant falls to his knees and the figure of fire flickers and disappears. It is done.
“R’aegoth, your hair!” comes Mik’vael’s exclamation.
I get up and reach for it––but it is not long enough. I walk up to the chamber that is empty and look into it for the reflection.
Rather than a full head of dark brown, the brown is struck by a thick, jagged crest of red.
Red is not my favorite color. Do I have one? Would I scream it in the streets?
No. Red is the color of fire and I took that path. I like orange. These unopened cans don’t mean anything. I kick at one of them and it spills out, the tinted rusty coke's blood creating union with the disparate ground along sundried cracks. The sight is appreciated. Need the shades. My head itches and I itch it. No hair falls out this time, and it is still the scruffy brown of the dogs. A leather jacket, colored all in black except for green around the collar, lies on the ground by my feet. I kneel to pick it up, and sawdust falls from my fingers. It’s a nice jacket. That’s right. I stand up, insert my right arm, bring it around my shoulders, finish with the left. It’s a bit warmer.
What to do now? The outfit’s only reaped the jacket but without the motorbike sovereignty. If I look up at the sun, I have to cover my eyes. That’s because you broke the shades. I burned a school, but no one left the world for it. Not a hero, huh. I hit a home run in a junkyard.
I turn to ask Gaebus. They’re sitting on that tire. Gaebus smiles widely, showing their toothless mouth. Verx, Seed. “Yeah, yeah. We’re not playing today, no doubleheader.” Gaebus shrugs. “As if that matters? There’s no team, Gaebus. No team, no game. No fans either.” Gaebus seems to disagree, and uses one wing to point beyond me, to my ten o’clock.
A line of mankers, each one spaced about one little leaguer’s baseline from the next, is sitting smiling from the entrance to my yard and going back, to the nearby abandoned parking lot, and into the abandoned warehouse behind it. The first one starts barking. The second follows, making yelps. The third croaks. This continues until a screaming line of some diamondless baseball leads out from the dugout.
“A game it is, then.” I do some practice swings. But I have no bat.
Ba-say-ball, Gaebus states. Pitch-ay-er, ri.
Yadda, yadda, yeti. I won’t succumb to their black sought screams, and I won’t run the bases doing noogies on their metalfuzzed heads. Without a bat, I’ll be the pitcher. I look around for a ball. Ah! The now-empty can will do. Who’s the catcher? I use my shoes to scruff out a pitcher’s mound, on the same level but we aren't keeping score. I stand, thumb the can, avoiding the sharp edges. Opening pitch: a fastball on the inside will do. I bend forward, eyeing the catcher. They make no signal. Well, fastball it is. I return to front stance. Clutch blooded can above my head, reflects the rays. Raise left leg, bring can lower. Bring left foot forward down, pat. Cast left hand forward, bring right hand with the can back. It’ll flip well. Vision stays true. Bring right arm forward! Fwip fwip fwip fwip curves slightly, striking the manker on the bottom left leg. It squeals. A ball. Aim a bit higher. I reach down for another can, and wind.
There are more of you?
I remember saying.
It wasn’t the first time he would be having their food, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Jaceus stood before what was called the self-server, a raised screen above a platform that much resembled their self-scanners. It showed William Restor’s recommendation for today’s meal, another installment of Blucorps-produced Sandwich Lite and Super Salad. Jaceus knew that he could either stand on the pedestal and communicate via receptor with the self-server as he would for a self-scanner, indicating his choice. He also knew that he could order in advance, to the day before, and bypass the server to pick up his order directly from the array of nexus tubes laid out behind the machine. Some students now were standing before them, waiting as their various pre-packaged meals rose up from them.
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He shook his head. Back home––this time he let the memories flood––their meals would be captured and harvested, thanked, prepared, and eaten by everyone. It wasn’t as separated, individual, as it was here. Jaceus stepped past the self-server and Thought to access the servery. Identity, Jaceus Rodoym. Most recent order. No Thoughts came back––it was thoughtless, after all––well, but not an Ab’maluk––as he watched, the nexus tube in front of him pulsed, and a capsule shot up from its depths. He took it and turned to scan the cafeteria once more.
It wasn’t a new sight, but sometimes before choosing whom to sit with he’d admire one of the few things worth observing about William Restor––the architecture. Elliptical and curving inward like the hull of an enormous ship, the roof cupped the encircling walls; large golden letters spelled WILLIAM RESTOR on the very center of the ceiling; and the names of all the Principals from Restor himself to the current lined what might be the keel on either side.
Jaceus turned his attention to the tables. Immediately he saw some students waving to him, some he’d sat with before, others eager to solicit the most physically endowed in the school. Today, though, he was searching for a specific person… even though they talked yesterday, from what interaction they had he had an inkling that she wouldn’t visit––ah, there she was, sitting with Falara, whom he’d met at the Exhibit. He walked towards her.
It wasn’t long before the turning of heads like a school of fish caught the attention of Skylark, who turned around with what might have been an expression of delight covered by surprise. Or a mixture of both, like how her hair was two shades of blue. Jaceus waved. “Skylark! And Falara, right? Can I sit down with you?”
What? No. No, no, no, not yet––
It was too soon––it was too fast, she had thought about seeing him at lunch back in Technologies, but she wasn’t really going to do it, they’d attract the attention of the entire cafeteria––Skylark could feel the gazes of those nearby. Falara was responding to whatever Jaceus had said just now, without even a hint of hesitation, as if she knew him from somewhere. Well, she thought, as she tried to look down at her Sandwich Lite, as long as Jaceus sort of just said his courtesies and left––No! You have to ask him about the other Scions he knows!––and he was sitting down, unwrapping his own Sandwich Lite. Still talking to Falara, Jaceus proceeded to eat it. Skylark admired how he sounded as coherent as he was a minute ago while covering his mouth with his hand. Do I TM him? That way we can talk about stuff without Falara who’s not a Scion hear. But wait, he didn’t want to communicate by receptor to alert the Government or––
Incoming Thought message. Identity, Jaceus Rodoym.
Accept. Skylark surprised herself by how quickly she did. Uh, hi, Jaceus.
Good morning, Skylark. “Well, I don’t do techistry myself, but I find it fascinating,” he said to Falara. If you don’t mind?
No, no no I don’t. How’s your sandwich? Skylark, what are you doing? she wanted to scream at herself, but talking to him via receptor was a lot easier than she’d imagined. “Me too! Did you see the Rins’ piece?” Falara asked. It’s excellent, Jaceus replied. “I did––floating robots. It certainly was interesting.”
Well, the other day, you said you knew––you knew other Scions. She held her breath.
I do. In fact, I could try contacting one right now.
Skylark stood up, causing Falara to stop mid-sentence. She smiled sheepishly and sat back down. Now? Talk to them via receptor? Isn’t that… it’s not risky? Would Jaceus know about the dangers Scions faced? He seemed to know, or at least had to keep his own identity a secret too. I’ll talk to her first.
OK. Skylark left the Thought-feed.
“That techist our age, Tracy or something? His was cool too!”
“Tristan. Talented guy!” Jaceus ate like he was in a Blucorps V-ad. The way he used his fork to cut away at his Super Salad was almost artistic. Incoming Thought message. Identity, Melea Voraëson. Different name? But receptors were always linked to their owners’ real names. That ë meant Governors in their family. Accept.
Hello.
Hi, I’m Skylark. You’re… Melea?
A tangible feeling of hesitation, before: Yes.
It was a nice name… prettier than “Skylark.” How do you know Jaceus?
Jaceus. I am very fortunate to know him. Melea sounded almost respectful, not like how Skylark felt when she looked at Jaceus, but how she might act around a teacher. On some days. I met him in Lowers.
Lowers? Jaceus went to Lowers? Huh. You’re a Scion too, she asked.
Yes. I am a Scion.
Magy’cal? I’m Scion Magy’cal.
Possibly a note of surprise entered Melea’s Thoughts. No. I’m Scion Emulus.
Emulus! That was Jaceus! Whoa, okay, now that made sense. Has Jaceus… has he shown you his magic?
Yes, the Thought came immediately. It is alter.
I want to see it too, Skylark Thought. What’s your ability? I can make things float.
A good ability, Melea replied. Mine’s more of a trait.
Ah, Jaceus had used that word too. What do you mean?
It’s not that extraordinary.
Huh! But she was a Scion too, wasn’t she? Skylark looked to Jaceus, even though he wasn’t in their Thought-feed.
He was looking directly at Falara as he spoke, his mouth moving.
He was right across from Skylark, but in that moment, watching him eat and talk, he felt far away. Skylark looked down at her Sandwich Lite; sandwich was a word still around, that she did remember learning last year. Abur back then hadn’t slept during class as much. In Plent and High they used other words, more advanced culinary techniques sifted over by the Government into the nexus tubes and up in their fancy exon packaging, instantly biodegradable or insoluble or whatever, and the food was supposed to taste excellent, but here she was eating this Sandwich Lite, and now she was keeping Melea waiting, waiting for whatever brilliant thing she had to say next, one Scion to another, Magy’cal to Emulus, and she already knew Jaceus, and––
I could tell you my trait. But I’m not sure of it myself. I’m glad you know what yours is.
Levitation. Skylark, without thinking, watched one of the green components of the Sandwich Lite flutter. She could levitate…
She felt her flow of warmth and happiness enter the Thought-feed. Melea, her sense changing to one of, if she were there, smiling as Falara was right now, happily chatting away, as if reaching out a hand. Stay with Jaceus, came the Thought, Melea sounding very firm, but still knowing, still somewhat gentle.
I will, Skylark Thought back. I will.
They were sitting at one of the round tables arrayed around the raider field. It was night, but the field decorated with the vast WILLIAM RESTOR insignia amidst the shifting obstacles and what looked like imitation portals, players running into them to exit from others on the far side of the circle, was well lit.
Tristan appreciated the light. Not that it much affected his seeing of receptit in the Thought-screen, but he could make out the face of his friend, Y’sazant Syzer.
It’d been their idea to take Tristan to the raider game to cheer him up. Tristan thought the sport’s competitive fluid dynamics of the ball being cast around the space was interesting, but nowhere nearly as interesting as particle suspension. He turned his attention back to receptit. [photo of the One Fleet spread-eagled against room floor. Top comments: ‘looks more like a geometry project than techistry’ ‘the son of Meliodas Mott made this? incredible.’ ‘who would look at this un-alter stuff’] Tristan rejected all of them as he looked, the screen rolling down in his mind’s Thought-screen. He knew that Father was just instructing him to do better on his next piece. It wasn’t the first time Pops had Thought-photoed his son’s work and uploaded it to the Net, after all.
Y’sazant’s emerald green hair with its carefully airnano-curled bangs bounced in front of his eyes. “Are you watching the game?” they asked.
Tristan closed the Thought-screen, and looked at his friend. Their eyes, a strong greenish-brown and also somehow warm, looked back. “Syz, I’m trying. It’s a bit complicated.”
“Complicated? Nothing your brain can’t handle.” Y’sazant sat back on their chair and sighed. “Look, I know your dad’s big in the techist world. But you gotta relax! This game’s pretty cool.” They pointed to the field below––at that moment, the small alter plastic ball was high in the air, and two Foxes were standing on the field looking up at it, as well as a Bear. Or maybe it was two Bears and a Fox––Tristan forgot which of the extinct animals’ team colors were orange and which brown. “How much time left?” he asked.
“You really want it to end? Verx, Tristan. If we win this and the next game, we play Blazon from Plent! Isn’t that crazy?”
Tristan forced a smile. Y’sazant had been raised in High. Using words like verx, a remnant of High English back when it was spoken commonly in the mid-22nd century and still among some families in High, was one of their few traits that reminded him of their distance. Y’sazant didn’t act like the child of a former Government official, but much of their High accent was still there, the es curved like as. “I have a lot of classwork to make up.”
Y’sazant laughed. Not for the first time, Tristan thought the sound resembled a pair of bodeizes being struck together. It was a nice sound. “Tristan, you just got back, and I couldn’t TM-you since your receptor was confiscated. I want to spend some time with you.”
Tristan felt his chest tighten like wind strings. He had missed Syz; his only real friend at school. Not counting those like Mr. Hegel and Mr. Bluejoy. He hadn’t realized how much coming to the raider game and not going home to Father would feel. “Thanks, Syz.” And whenever he was absent, all he could think about was Pops’ next piece. Clock––20:17 PM. Pops wouldn’t like it if he came home after 20:30. “I have to go, though. Curfew.”
Y’sazant looked at him. “OK, faet ris, I’ll TM-you the score later, all right?” Tristan nodded, conscious of his receptor intertwined over his ear as he got up and put on his backpack. Its wind strings and clips shook inside. “Thanks for the tickets,” he said as he started heading out, to the portal next to the field. All the sports fields had one.
Some ten steps more, and he looked back. Y’sazant was facing the game, leaned back on their chair. Tristan waved. Thank you for inviting me again. He’d been absent for almost a month, and Y’sazant had met him in the hallway after the first period. “Tristan! You free tonight? Let’s see the raider game.”
Tristan smiled.